


Fate, Chance, Kings, and Desperate Men

by stoic_swan



Series: Disparate Paths [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark Will Graham, Death, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied Sexual Content, Jack Has Issues, Sexual Content, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoic_swan/pseuds/stoic_swan
Summary: Will and Hannibal have been in Florence for three months, and they are beginning to face conflict from within as well as from outside. In Italy, Hannibal and Inspector Pazzi meet once more, while in the United States, Mason Verger and Jack Crawford try to find ways to bring the men to justice. Between them, Hannibal and Will struggle to find a way to coexist and survive those who wish them dead.Second in a series, following When the Moment Comes. Recommended you read that work first, although you could probably connect the dots if you want to jump right in.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Disparate Paths [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804768
Comments: 41
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

“ _Seduto,_ ” Will commanded. He sat on the guesthouse steps at _Podere Nuccioli,_ the sounds of the party behind him wafting from the villa. He gave his new companion a fond scratch behind the ears. 

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t learned ‘shake’ in Italian,” Will apologized.

The German shepherd offered a paw anyway, drawing a smile from Will. He scruffed the dog’s neck with both hands, and the dog wagged its tail enthusiastically back and forth across the dusty ground. 

“Who trains a German shepherd in Italian?” he asked the dog. “Your owners live in New Jersey.”

The dog cocked his head quizzically to the side but, tail still wagging, did not seem to disagree with the criticism. A few additional minutes of silent petting, and Pax laid down, head on Will’s thigh. Will had been sneaking the dog bits of hors d'oeuvres throughout the night, and with his owners hurtling quickly toward drunkenness, he followed Will’s retreat. Pax’s family, Dr. and Mrs. Laszlo and their two college-aged children, rented the spacious villa for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Peter and Dorothy Laszlo had run into Hannibal and Will at a restaurant in Florence the week prior; the Laszlos had been visibly frazzled from a day spent sprinting from one historical site to the next. Dr. Laszlo, whom Hannibal had attended medical school with and seen socially whenever he was in D.C., was delighted to learn they were on an extended stay in Florence and insisted they attend the celebration. Will allowed himself to be dragged along with minimal complaint.

From the pathway near the guest house, Will heard gravel crunching underfoot. The steps were irregular and halting. Dorothy appeared around the corner, her knee-length silver dress reflecting the light; unfortunately, her low heels and multiple glasses of champagne caused her to struggle on the unpaved walkway. Finally, she sighed, took off the heels, and held them in the hand opposite her half-full flute. She smiled too warmly at Will, as though they were old friends themselves.

“Pax! There you are! Stop getting fur on Mr….Will’s suit!” 

The dog trotted over to her and watched her from her side. She continued making her way to Will, focusing very carefully on her steps. 

“I’m sorry but I _cannot_ remember your last name,” she slurred cheerfully.

“Graham,” Will answered. “He’s a good dog.”

She looked at Pax who still stood next to her. She laid a hand tenderly on the dog’s head, and Pax stared upward with the unmatched adoration of a well-loved dog. Will was afraid for a moment that she might tear up.

“He used to be so little,” she finally replied. Will couldn’t help letting his eyebrows raise upward in growing amusement. Dorothy changed subjects and charged ahead. “It is so, so, so nice seeing Hannibal again. It’s been years-- years! And with a…,” she paused and rolled her hand in front of her, trying to grasp a suitable word from the cool night air. 

Will was very curious how her sentence was going to end. 

“And with a _significant other,_ ” she enunciated carefully. “He’s such a sweet man. Never introduced us to a...friend before.”

Will grimaced, glad the night and the alcohol haze would mask his discomfort. He hadn’t wanted to be found, and he’d had more than enough idle, awkward small talk for the evening. He’d found a pattern and repeated it countless times with the nameless, faceless well-dressed guests:  


_Will Graham. Nice to meet you, too._

_I teach._

_Well, I guess “professor” is more accurate. I teach forensic science to FBI trainees._

_No, it’s usually boring. Presenting lessons, grading…_

_No, not like CSI._

_Yes, I have worked with the FBI on cases but not anything interesting._

_Hannibal? Through work. He consulted on a few cases._

_Just since spring, but we’ve been...close longer._

_I’m not sure. Hannibal is going to give a series of lectures on The Divine Comedy, so we’ll be here for at least another month._

_I’m writing a book, so I stay busy. You look dry-- could I get you another drink?_

Confronted with someone he had already performed this particular dance with, Will decided to say nothing and let the awkwardness of silence work to his benefit. It took Mrs. Laszlo longer than it would have if she was not floating on a cloud of champagne, but she eventually started to wander away, heading unsteadily toward the party. 

Will leaned his head back and looked at the overcast night sky. No stars were visible. He let himself drift to Wolf Trap; Abigail was there this time. They had visited her twice in Rome during the three months they’d been in Italy. The Abigail in his stream had been modified to fit the real girl’s new shoulder-length haircut. She had looked so much older; Will wondered if he would start tearing up the way Mrs. Laszlo had when she thought about Pax. Puppies growing up; daughters growing up. It wasn’t so different. Abigail was midway through a story about one of her roommates when Hannibal brought Will back to his body. 

“How is your stream this evening?” he asked with a smile in his words though his face was unexpressive. 

“Abigail sends her best,” Will replied, and Hannibal did quirk his lips minutely upward. “Have you dismissed your court or run out of sonnets? Last I heard, you were tapping into Petrarch’s deep cuts.”

Hannibal came to stand directly in front of him, his eyes crinkled at the corners in thinly-veiled warmth. 

“Does impromptu poetry always offend you or only at parties?”

Will gave a single, small laugh at that; he would add this to the litany of questions only Hannibal Lecter would pose to him. 

“Some questions are better left unanswered,” Will tauntingly replied. “I’ve found the best seat in the house.” 

Will scanned his eyes over the olive grove stretching to his left. The shadowy trees lying just beyond the reach of the villa’s lights reminded him of his own dark forest. This was his first true bout of homesickness, the darkened countryside and dog resting on his thigh running sharp nails over a wound he didn’t know he had. 

“You always do,” Hannibal said kindly, reaching out to tuck back a lock of hair that hadn’t actually fallen loose. 

Over the previous three months, they hadn’t attended as many parties or galas as Will might have imagined in his less grotesque nightmares, but they had gone to enough for Hannibal to accept that Will would, invariably, slink off somewhere during the night when he’d met his social interaction quota. In turn, Will accepted that Hannibal would be surrounded by fellow patrons of the arts and completely fail to resist intellectual showboating. 

“The car will arrive shortly. We’ve swiftly reached the point in the evening when wine fails to make others more pleasant.” 

While Will would not have requested to leave yet, he felt a wash of relief knowing they would soon be en route to their temporary home in Florence. Hannibal had enough self-awareness to leave events before he began to find fellow guests intolerable. A few minutes later, headlights illuminated the two men, and Hannibal reached a hand out to Will as he stood. He did not release it until he opened the car door. 

It took just over thirty minutes to arrive at their apartment. The flat was far more luxurious than Will would have ever chosen-- or been able to pay for-- but Hannibal insisted he knew the owner and wasn’t burdened by the cost. Everything in Hannibal’s life surrounding finances was still uneasy for Will. He had worked consistently since he was fifteen, and he was financially secure in ways his father had never been. Still, no ordinary person could afford the lifestyle Hannibal carved for himself. It would have been impossible for Will to even moderately defray the cost of their living expenses; besides, Hannibal would not hear of it. Will had not planned on starting a book in Italy, but he couldn’t bear not having a task that was his and that allowed him to feel productive. Predictably, Hannibal was not at all sensitive about discussing or sharing wealth with Will-- the privilege of being the half with greater resources. Will avoided it like money was a disease he didn’t want to catch.

At the apartment, Will immediately started stripping off layers. His shoes were kicked off at the entryway rug; his thick suit jacket, belt, and tie made it to an armchair in the living room; his dress shirt and pants were placed appropriately in the dry cleaning basket. He fell heavily on the guest room bed in a white t-shirt, blue-striped boxers, and socks. He preferred the guest room because it was smaller and had a large window that was covered in green vines. It felt safer than the spacious master with its oversized, cobalt-blue headboard and separate dressing area. The first time they had walked through the home, Will spent the most time in this room, staring out the verdant window; Hannibal understood through observation that the master bedroom would not be used, although he still hung their clothing up in the walk-in dressing room.

Hannibal followed Will’s pathway a few moments later. He had probably deposited the suit jacket with the other laundry. Will should have done that, but he felt like he needed to escape the stuffy clothing and flee before it had a chance to reattach itself. Hannibal was still mostly dressed, though he had lost his shoes and jacket. He sat on the bed and leaned against the pillows. Will turned to put his head on Hannibal’s legs, not unlike the dog had done to Will earlier. The irony was not lost on Will. Hannibal’s hand found its way to the back of Will’s neck and rubbed small, firm circles in the muscles there. 

“When I asked you to travel with me, is this what you imagined?” Hannibal asked in a neutral voice. The weight of the question and his dispassionate tone did not match. Will thought before speaking.

“I didn’t really expect anything. I didn’t think about it. I just came.”

Hannibal moved his hand to Will’s hair, curling strands around his fingers. 

“You need something, or perhaps, something is bothering you.”

It wasn’t a question, and he wasn’t wrong. Will didn’t like feeling transparent. His stomach twisted; he had been waiting for the right time to have this conversation, and he had not expected Hannibal to initiate it. 

“I have a question for you,” Will finally sighed. “I need an honest answer-- no technicalities or flowery metaphors.”

He could tell by the smooth work of Hannibal’s fingers in his hair that the man was not offended by the disclaimer.

“Are you planning on killing again?”

Hannibal’s fingers did stop then. His hand dropped to Will’s shoulder, as though he couldn’t concentrate on both the action and the question at once. 

“I have not made any arrangements, nor have I made abstract plans. I expect the opportunity will again present itself, someday.”

“Someday?” Will repeated. He dwelled on this word for a few minutes, gnawing at the corners and finding it bitter. “Have you stopped for me?”

Hannibal expelled a deep, audible breath. 

“I wouldn’t have you think of it in such terms,” he began, voice low. “The presence of death has often graced my life; the same cannot be said of love. It may be more accurate to say I have discovered my priorities are in a novel configuration.”

Will imagined puzzle pieces in Hannibal’s brain clicking together in ever-changing arrangements. A large, Will-shaped piece bursts across the carefully-constructed map, sending debris scattering through Hannibal’s mind.

“It’s not your natural _configuration_ ,” Will observed.

“No,” Hannibal said slowly, “but it is not uncomfortable.”

Hannibal hadn’t meant that to elicit ire, but it did. 

“I have no desire for you to just exist in comfort,” Will replied, hurt and anger weaving between his words. Insulted, he questioned, “Do you think I’d leave?”

Hannibal didn’t answer, which Will recognized as an answer in itself. Will had halted a fully-fleshed out life and come halfway around the world; he had revealed himself and his own darker inclinations to Hannibal. Leaving now was almost inconceivable. He didn’t think either of them would survive. 

“I saw you at Mason Verger’s farm,” Will reminded, trying unsuccessfully to moderate his voice. “I saw you crack a man’s skull against the concrete and bite into the throat of another. Would you ask me to forget that?”

“Never,” Hannibal answered quickly, harshly. 

“Then trust that I knew you before I loved you and stop hiding.”

Will’s timbre was dark and harsh, yet even as he threw the words at the other man, he realized he had never told Hannibal he loved him. The man knew, surely, but words were important to Hannibal. Feeling suddenly remorseful, Will rolled over on the bed to look at Hannibal’s face. It was blank, and his body was still. Will opened his mouth to offer something-- not an apology but a word of warmth to connect his statement and the conflicting emotions behind it-- and quickly found himself yanked upward and pinned under Hannibal’s upper body, lit eyes staring at him. In contrast to the constrictive weight on his chest, Hannibal’s hand gently cupped Will’s face. 

“Say it again,” Hannibal demanded.

“Which part?” Will asked, the hot stare bordering on triggering his fight or flight reaction. 

Hannibal answered with a hard, biting kiss. 

Will offered a safer version of what Hannibal wanted to hear and repeated in a whisper, “I knew you before I loved you.”

Hannibal took what was offered and kissed him again, lightening somewhat on his chest and pulling Will in closer to him. 

Well after midnight, when they finally settled to sleep, Hannibal curled around him, and Will said into the darkness, “We’ll hunt together.” 

Hannibal responded with tightened arms and a breath that sounded like “Yes.”

Will dreamed of glass floating down around him like snow and Randall Tier’s bones crunching under his fists. 

Hannibal left early the next morning. His first lecture on the concept of individuation in relation to _The Divine Comedy_ was that evening, and he was undoubtedly going to the museum to watch over the shoulders of nervous workers as they prepared the space and finished arranging the new display-- depictions of the underworld in Italian art across the ages. Will recognized this as the perfect time to start his new work. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking about this for weeks already. Now, with an understanding met, Will felt his body tingle with adrenaline.

Florence was a safe, not-too-large city, which was excellent for living but rather unfortunate for identifying the ilk of prey Will preferred. Still, morality was negotiable, and he had noticed the most common type of crime was petty theft. This had been made abundantly clear to him during one of his walks around the city while Hannibal hob-nobbed with gallery owners at a wine-laden lunch. Will had felt the distinct sensation of a hand trying to lift his wallet from his pocket; instinctively, Will grabbed the wrist crushingly hard, and the man lifted his free arm in surrender. Will studied his face as quickly as possible and released him with a small shove of the arm back into the man’s body. In subsequent days, he walked the same quarter, and he saw the same man passing smoothly through the crowds. The man had delivered himself into Will’s arms, invading his space and taking what was not rightfully his. He reminded Will of Freddie Lounds. 

Today, Will was going to go a step further.

Will took a seat on a rough-hewn wall surrounding a raised bed. He had a coffee in one hand and a book in the other-- the picture of casual Saturday morning relaxation. He flipped through the book, staring at pages for more or less the appropriate amount of time. He waited for two hours before the pickpocket appeared. He was probably in his late 20s, and he looked healthy and tidy. He wasn’t nursing a hard drug habit with his theft, most likely. He wore good sneakers; Will didn’t recognize designer brands, but they were clean and new and had a quasi-familiar emblem on the sides. His well-kept appearance was a good mask in the crowd; nobody shirked away from him as he made his way. He circled the crowd in the square once, inconspicuously; then, he walked through the center of the square two times in parallel lines, never running into the same person twice. After the second stroll, the man walked toward a side street, and Will followed. 

Will kept a safe distance between him and the man, and he kept his coffee cup in his hand, taking sips even though it was empty now. He hoped he looked unassuming, maybe like a tourist or a new ex-pat. When they arrived at a street leading toward apartments typically inhabited by too many college students, Will started exercising greater caution. If the man had noticed him earlier, he would not have pegged Will to be heading toward this stretch of neighborhood; it could alarm the man before Will got what he needed. The man almost got lost once when a crew of four college kids-- three females and one young male-- passed through Will’s line of sight, but his target reappeared on the fringes of the group, his hand quickly stuffing into his hoodie. The group had gotten twenty or so feet past the pickpocket when the sole male made a noise, and the group stopped their jovial procession. He pointed at Will’s prey and yelled something Will couldn’t completely understand but comprehended the gist of. The angry boy approached Will’s victim with hands balled into fists and the veins in his neck prominent. The pickpocket didn’t look scared; he shouted back at the other man. Will saw the pickpocket stick his hand in his back pocket and yell something along the lines of “get your friend” at the shocked women; the angry young man was pulled back by his friends, and the target took off quickly in the direction he was headed. Will guessed the pickpocket carried a knife.

Will let the four upset kids pass and get some distance away before he followed his victim. He didn’t want the pickpocket looking back to check if the man he stole from was trying to ambush him only to catch Will instead. Cocky, however, the pickpocket did not look back once until he made it to the entrance of an old home that had been converted to multiple rooms for rent. The pickpocket went inside, and Will memorized the location. He walked back to his and Hannibal’s apartment light on his feet. 

Hannibal returned home a few hours before his lecture to shower and change. Will didn’t want to share his observations yet-- the plan needed more time to develop in his mind-- but he was humming with energy, unable to sit in one place and getting lost in a fog of thought when he tried to force himself to do so. Hannibal immediately took notice and watched him with hawkish eyes.

“Is everything ready for this evening?” Will asked, noticing Hannibal’s scrutiny.

“The curator’s diligence has served her well,” Hannibal answered, steady. “Tell me, how did you spend your day Will? You look extraordinarily well.”

Will crossed his arms over his chest and looked out the window.

“I spent the day walking around the city,” Will dodged.

“Taking in the sights?” Hannibal asked, his voice edging toward sarcasm.

Unwilling to lie, Will met his gaze with keen eyes. Hannibal smelled blood in the water before the first drop had fallen.

“I found that even Florence has pigs.” 

Hannibal’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. He took Will in, head to toe. 

“I should have realized you’re a man who needs a hobby.”

Will wanted to scoff at the simplistic observation, but Hannibal’s unblinking eyes and tightened jaw said _I want this. I need this._ even if his words did not. 

Hannibal walked by him to head towards the bathroom to shower, understanding Will was not prepared to discuss this yet. As he passed, he caught Will from behind and held him at the waist, fingertips stroking Mason’s scar. From behind Will’s ear, he whispered, “You’ll never stop surprising me, Will.” 

With a firm kiss to the flesh of Will’s neck and a deep inhale of Will’s scent, Hannibal returned on his path through the house. When the footsteps were out of earshot, Will released a ragged breath. Goosebumps rose on his flesh. He walked to the courtyard to let the last rays of sunlight warm and soothe him. 

Will clapped with the rest of the crowd that night when Hannibal’s lecture ended. Well-dressed men and women sat in uncomfortable chairs for nearly two hours listening to Hannibal deliver the first in his series entitled _The Divine Man_. Will still found himself having trouble concentrating, so his thoughts throughout the presentation tended to swing between the words being spoken, the myriad ways he could spill the pickpocket’s blood, and what Hannibal’s suit would look like crumpled on the rug at their front entrance. Will let the other attendees crowd Hannibal, vying for his attention or to attempt to match wits with him on some fine detail of _Dante’s Inferno._ They wouldn’t touch the psychological aspect of the lecture, too afraid to be made fools; they didn’t know Dr. Lecter was poised to do that regardless. 

Will wandered around the museum floor. It was left open for those who had purchased a ticket to the lecture. His attention was captured by a particularly vivid piece hanging inside a tall glass case. Images of men and women and bizarre demons danced on the tapestry; Will’s eyes scanned it, but he didn’t let his thoughts hold too firmly on any one detail. All he needed to add to his dreams was an army of hellish creatures. A man came to stand next to Will by the display. He didn’t look at Will or speak to him, but Will could tell the man was angling to be noticed. He underestimated Will’s ability to ignore a nuisance. 

Finally, the man attempted an introduction.

“Are you Will Graham?” he asked in accented English.

Will glanced at him and noticed he was not quite as finely dressed as others in the crowd. His eyes were sharp but his body language seemed intentionally passive, hands tucked into his pockets and shoulders slumped down. Will pegged him instantly as a police officer.

“I am,” Will said brusquely. The man’s smile only widened, attempting to disarm him. He waited for his name to be asked. The question didn’t come.

“I am Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi of the _Questura di Firenze_ ,” he supplied. 

The cheap satisfaction Will felt at having identified his profession was eclipsed by suspicion. 

“I used to be a police officer in the United States,” Will shared.

“I know,” Inspector Pazzi answered, too readily. At Will’s cold glance, he continued, “Dr. Lecter has made an impression. You’re staying with him in the city. It’s my job to know things. You understand.”

Will nodded, understanding too clearly. Pazzi searched his face for a sign of possible accord between officers of the law. 

“How long do you plan to stay in Florence, Mr. Graham?” Pazzi asked courteously, letting the implication make the threat. 

“To be determined. Have we overextended our welcome?” Will rose to the verbal posturing. 

Inspector Pazzi’s eyes caught something-- someone-- over Will’s shoulder, and he didn’t speak immediately. 

“Of course not. I hope you didn’t take offense. Curiosity, only,” Pazzi placatingly responded, still watching over Will’s shoulder.

“It’s your job to know things,” Will echoed his words back at him, and Pazzi did an admirable job of holding the polite smile he had assumed.

“Inspector Pazzi,” Hannibal’s voice boomed from behind Will, louder than needed-- an imitation of friendliness.

“Good evening, Dr. Lecter.”

“Did you enjoy the lecture? I hope I didn’t embarrass myself in the eyes of the locals.”

Pazzi ignored Will completely now that his true person of interest had arrived.

“I find it hard to believe you are ever embarrassed, Doctor,” Pazzi demurred. “Excellent research,” the man added civilly.

“Thank you, Inspector,” Hannibal coolly accepted his half-hearted compliment. “I admit I was surprised to see your face in the crowd.”

Pazzi looked alarmed for the first time and breathed out an, “Oh?”

“You are Rinaldo Pazzi of _the_ Pazzi family, am I correct?”

“How did you know that?” Pazzi tried to sound interested but friendly. 

“You resemble a figure from the Della Robbia roundels in your family's chapel at Santa Croce.”

Pazzi uncomfortably responded, “Ah, that was Andrea de' Pazzi depicted as John the Baptist.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Hannibal gave a ferocious smile, eyes steely black above his exposed teeth. His tone turned dark as he said, “But then there's the most-famous Pazzi of all: Francesco. He attempted to assassinate Lorenzo the Magnificent in the cathedral, at Mass, in 1478.”

Inspector Pazzi let his shield of artifice drop at the mention. 

“A mark all Pazzis must suffer,” he tersely conceded. 

Hannibal continued unabated, growing aggressive under his tranquil countenance, “Led astray by thirty pieces of silver from the Papal banker, if accounts are correct.”

“The archbishop hanged with him,” Pazzi sneered, looking rather gray. Will knew without conscious thought how much this visible change in demeanor must gratify Hannibal.

“His body hanging outside the _Palazzo_ has been a subject of artistic depiction for centuries now. Some illustrations of Pazzi have his bowels in, others bowels out. I saw a wood carving only yesterday with the added detail of a bite mark from the teeth of the archbishop.” 

Hannibal and Pazzi stared at one another in silence. Pazzi broke the standoff, letting his eyes dart back to Will.

“Mr. Graham, your friend is an impressive student of art and history.”

“Dr. Lecter pursues his interests with frightening zeal,” Will confirmed.

Hannibal seemed genuinely pleased by the assessment. 

With a sigh of utter regret, Hannibal explained, “I must steal Will from you, I’m afraid. Signor Albizzi has requested to meet him many times, but the moment has not been right.”

“Until now,” Pazzi flatly concluded. 

“Until now,” Hannibal agreed, letting a terribly polite smile grace his features. “We will see you soon, Inspector Pazzi.” 

Hannibal put his hand on Will’s shoulder and turned them both away. 

Hannibal continued gliding around the room from group to group, making a full loop around the ground floor displays. He was stopped every few feet by people offering their congratulations and asking for a preview of the next lecture. He kept Will by his side, hand on his back or elbow. It felt like blatant possessiveness, but after the tense conversation with Inspector Pazzi, Will did not rail against it. 

They were living within walking distance of the museum, so as the crowd started to thin, Hannibal escaped with Will to the cool streets. November was mild here, but there was still a chill in the air. Once they were far from the crowds, Will spoke in a hushed voice.

“What do I need to know?’

Hannibal inhaled sharply.

“I have met the inspector before, in a previous life. I made art here.”

Will could imagine his _art._

“He investigated you?”

“Yes, without success.”

“That seems to be a theme in your life.”

A corner of Hannibal’s mouth raised, and he shot Will an affectionate look. 

“A man was convicted and imprisoned as _Il Mostro,_ and I left Florence without charges.”

“But Pazzi remembers you and believes you are _Il Mostro._ ”

“The case has been closed for two decades. There is no threat worth worrying over.”

Will half-groaned at the arrogant nonchalance. 

“There is no statute of limitations on blind justice,” Will insisted. “He and Jack Crawford should start a club.”

That earned a full, close-lipped smile from Hannibal, who laced his cold fingers between Will’s. They walked another block surrounded by the quiet sounds of the city. 

“ _Il Mostro,_ ” Will reflected. “And Mrs. Laszlo said you were a sweet man.”

Hannibal brought Will’s hand up to his mouth and kissed it, the picture of a gentleman, then nipped a tendon lightly. A very sweet monster, indeed. Will could tell he was smug as they finished their short journey to the apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Violence as well as enthusiastic non-violence =D

Will took immense delight in using Hannibal as bait. He had no reason to believe the young pickpocket would remember Will, but he didn’t want to risk his plan being derailed by such an obvious misstep. 

It was dusk on Friday evening; Will had devoted hours that week to watching the man from a distance, learning his schedule and studying his movements. He was quick but not graceful; to be blunt, he was remarkably unremarkable: a moderately athletic male in his 20s, average build, average height. The voice that murmured from deep within Will’s mind-- the voice drowned out by the noise of daily living-- whispered disappointment in how completely pedestrian the man was. His skin was not worthy of being stretched over fossils. 

Hannibal stood on the street corner, checking the time on his most obviously expensive watch. He wore a light gray suit with a faint plaid pattern. His shirt was a pastel lilac, and his paisley tie caught the street lamps with its reflective silver threading. He looked like a distracted, prissy businessman, just as Will envisioned. When he stopped to buy a newspaper, he let a wad of euros flash in the pickpocket’s direction. Will saw the man see Hannibal, and he watched the young man begin his own paltry version of stalking, following too closely behind Hannibal. Will trailed both of them from a less conspicuous distance.

Hannibal led him toward the historic district, which was largely deserted on the chilly Friday night. The young man was glancing around more often now, waiting for the right second to make the lift. Hannibal turned through a narrow alleyway, his pace leisurely. The pickpocket waited before turning but ultimately followed behind him; perhaps the watch had convinced the man to make this a mugging instead of his usual quick snatch. Will overshot the alley and stood at the corner of one of the buildings, securing the space for what was to come. There was nobody nearby, though, and his tingling body compelled him to look. 

In the alley, the young man already had the anticipated knife in one hand, and the other was stretched toward Hannibal impatiently. Hannibal held the posture of a man threatened, slightly bent over with one hand out, palm forward, as though begging the young man to leave him be. His other hand was making its way slowly to his wallet. The pickpocket glanced up and down the alley and caught sight of Will. It was inevitable that this young man die tonight, but the split-second distraction expedited the process nicely. Hannibal’s left hand caught the man’s wrist and twisted it painfully; to his credit, though, the man didn’t drop his knife until the syringe, now in Hannibal’s right hand, reached his flesh. With a final cursory look around him, Will came to meet Hannibal in the alley; he picked the knife up and tucked it into his coat pocket, They held the young man up on both sides, his head bobbing up and down weakly. An outsider might have thought their victim was inebriated and being assisted by two exasperated acquaintances. Of course, it was the tendency of most people to avoid uncomfortable situations, and a trio of men going drunkenly down the street on a Friday night was more annoying than suspicious.

Will and Hannibal stuck to the shadows as they half-dragged the man to an apartment a few blocks from their own. It was gutted for renovations that were halted mid-project by a lack of funds. Hannibal considered purchasing it at some point-- creating a custom home in Florence instead of altering a space to fit his needs-- but decided against it when he saw what he deemed to be shoddy craftsmanship. He had come by earlier in the day to prepare the area and unlock the door for them; depositing the man on the sheet of plastic was as simple as removing their arms. 

Will put on a pair of gloves and removed the man’s wallet from his pocket, searching for a name. The man’s solemn face stared upward from an ID card; the name Luca Conti bounced around Will’s mind. It felt right, as though he could have known this name without looking. 

“Luca,” Will told Hannibal, who was watching him.

“If we killed him now, he wouldn’t feel much. A mercy,” Hannibal offered.

“I want him to feel it.” Will’s voice was flat and impossibly calm. 

His body had been numb now for many minutes, since Luca first entered the alleyway after Hannibal. It had the dreamlike quality of the moments before sleep sucked him into a world over which he had no control. He could stand there watching Luca forever, waiting for him to return and truly meet Will for the first time.

Hannibal’s eyes gleamed even in the dark space. 

“I would not have guessed petty theft would provide you the righteousness you require.”

“I don’t _require_ righteousness,” Will hissed. Hannibal was unmoved.

“But it sweetens the taste on your tongue.”

Will felt the first stirrings of anger trickling from his spine, through his arms, and to his hands. He marveled that his fingertips didn’t glow with red fury. Will sensed Hannibal was trying to get a rise out of him-- he didn’t actually care what this man had done to warrant such an end.

“He put his hand on me and tried to take what was mine. He chose this.”

Hannibal came closer to him. He took one of Will’s hands between both of his and spread it, palm up; he held it carefully, as though Will was poised to deliver unto Luca the divine spark only to smite him down again.

“Change. He won’t sleep long,” Hannibal stated, releasing the hand and returning his attention to the logistics of their undertaking.

Will nodded, and they both removed their outer articles of clothing. Hannibal pulled a ridiculous pair of plastic coveralls from the oversized messenger bag stored away in the hollowed space where a dishwasher should have gone. Will watched in detached interest until Hannibal picked the bag back up and handed it to him; his own pair was inside.

“Hannibal,” Will started to object. It was excessive and would impede their movement.

“Tell me, Will, how much identifiable forensic evidence did you collect from the Chesapeake Ripper victims?”

Will pulled the ridiculous coveralls on without further disagreement. 

They sat and waited in the dark, bodies buzzing with organic electricity. Will’s mind remained silent save for the thought of Luca Conti’s blood.

When Luca finally began to stir on the ground, the reserve of charged energy in Will’s body began to flow in earnest to every muscle, readying him single-mindedly for what was to come. Luca groaned and got to his knees, frightened. Hannibal sat serenely on the ledge of the closed window, meditating on the unfolding situation. Luca was unsteady still. Will stayed between him and the door but made no move toward the man. He needed the satisfaction of a man fighting desperately for his life, not the feeble struggle of a drugged body. 

Luca asked him a series of frantic questions in Italian as he got to his feet: _Who are you? What is this? Why? Why? Why?_

Will did not speak, did not move. There was no answer for Luca’s final question; after all, the man did not rise every morning and ask, “Why not?” But Luca wouldn’t understand that, and Will’s purpose was not to enlighten him. He was going to destroy him and elevate what remained.

Becoming overwhelmed with his fear, Luca finally lunged at Will with a snarl. His shoulder met Will’s waist with the force of his body weight behind it; Will exhaled and took a step back in preparation, preventing the air from being knocked from him even as he hit the wall. Will brought a knee up to Luca’s face. Luca stumbled back, blood starting to trickle from his nose. Will could tell Luca had been in fights before with other young men or intended marks who fought back, but this was different. Will had been a formally-trained officer, and so often since, he had found himself in situations where he was forced to wield his own body as a weapon. His notoriously perceptive mind automatically read Luca’s intentions fractions of a second before he acted. Luca was angry now, and he’d try to throw a punch; when he did attempt to bring his fist to Will’s face, Will was prepared to dodge him. He grabbed at Will’s clothing, but Will’s knuckles driving deep into Luca’s stomach caused his hands to fall. It was so simple, so clean, Will’s mind producing only the single image of what was to come with no static scrambling his thoughts. 

Hannibal watched the dance from his perch, eyes fixed on Will in spite of Luca’s increasingly erratic attacks. 

Luca tried to charge past Will again to reach the door. It was time to quit batting the man between his claws. Will hooked an arm around Luca’s neck and jerked him in a half-circle. While he was unstable, Will pushed him down, landing on top of him with a knee on his spine. Luca called out for the first time, a strangled, high scream as the air left his body under Will’s weight. Will grabbed his hair and slammed his head once into the ground in return. Hot blood ran through Will’s veins while Luca’s own blood began to spread from around his head as it poured from his nose. He made a sound between a cry and a whimper. Will felt disgust and, yes, righteousness at the man who thought he was a predator cowering under him. He wrapped his hands around Luca’s neck, fingers crossing over his Adam’s apple, and tightened. He pressed his hands inward toward one another, Luca’s neck was nothing more than water between them. 

When Luca quit moving, Will loosened his grip; the man was still alive, barely. Will looked at Hannibal then. He had come to stand over Will at some point, but Will had not taken notice. He stood so that his perspective of Luca was almost the same as Will’s; Will’s violence was also his own. 

“His knife,” Will growled. 

Hannibal produced it and crouched to hand it to Will. He watched over Will’s shoulder as Will pulled Luca’s head back by his hair; Luca’s eyes rolled upward, searching for Will’s face in his hazy consciousness. Will met his vacant stare and ripped the knife across his throat, blood showering the plastic-covered floor in front of them. When the blood slowed, Will sat back on Luca’s body until the sounds of wet choking dwindled to nothingness. In that moment, the world was silent and dark and peaceful, and Will existed euphorically within it.

The still men might have been figures carved into the frieze of an ancient temple, captured forever in an unending moment of victory. The sound of voices in the streets below-- loud, easy laughter and chattering-- prompted Hannibal to break their scene with movement. He stood and proffered a hand to Will, who took it. 

“Your turn,” Will said, giving the knife back to Hannibal.

Hannibal wasted no time, manipulating the body expertly; this brief window was Hannibal’s opportunity to practice his craft. Will watched the work unfolding, curious how Hannibal’s skill would transform Luca from a mass of flesh to art. Will saw the empty space around them flicker between a gutted apartment in Italy and a beautiful kitchen in Baltimore. He’d watched this process before on a smaller scale. Hannibal carved the man’s chest open. With a blow to the sternum followed by forceful prying, ribs began to crack. 

They moved the body to the courtyard in the center of the empty apartments; Luca Conti looked like he was being carried in a blood-spattered hammock. Hannibal paused a moment to ensure his project had survived being moved without damage. The scene left for the police-- for Inspector Pazzi-- was a man ripping his own chest apart, fingers curled around his exposed ribs, with his wallet where his heart should have been and delicately folded euros protruding from small slits in his lungs like deformed feathers. 

They returned to finish cleaning up their space. They removed their coveralls and rolled them tightly, put them in a trash bag, and tucked them in the oversized messenger satchel. Will strapped the bag across his chest; in a burlap shopping sack, Hannibal carried the wrapped heart. 

Walking home, Hannibal was relaxed, fluid; Will looked untroubled but distant. They did not give the appearance of two men transporting an internal organ to a luxury apartment. There was no fear in Will’s mind or body; there was only power.

Home, Hannibal cleaned and wrapped the heart more appropriately for refrigeration. Will stood in the dining room, a narrow space with one wall of windows overlooking a garden. He had so much energy in his body, his victim only fueling what already existed. Will felt as though the power hummed just beneath the skin, threatening to separate his body into a shell of humanity and a wild collection of bone, muscle, blood, and teeth. His eyes watched the garden, and his mind returned to Luca Conti in the abandoned courtyard. Hannibal entered the room without breaking Will’s reverie. He stood beside Will, watching the younger man intently. 

“I smell like Luca,” Will said, mostly to himself. It was a combination of sharp sweat, the must of a hoodie that had gone unwashed a day too long, and soapy cologne. 

“He will wash away, and only you will remain,” Hannibal assured. A few minutes of comfortable silence later, he went on, “Do you feel regret?”

Will let a few seconds pass, then answered, “I’m glad he’s dead. I’m glad I killed him.” He drew his eyes from the window and looked at Hannibal, adding, “I enjoyed watching you.”

“And I you, very much,” Hannibal responded. Hannibal’s voice dropped low, thoughtful, as he continued, “No matter how much I change you and the circumstances of your life, you are beautifully a creature of your own making. So different even in what we share.” 

Will’s eyes dropped to Hannibal’s hands, and he tried to imagine what would have occurred in a parallel life where Hannibal had been the one to kill Luca Conti. The idea was unexpectedly tantalizing, and the tendrils of adrenaline that wrapped themselves around Will’s muscles during the murder now tightened again. Will didn’t want to feel this type of warmth with the scent of Luca hanging in the air around him; he looped a finger around Hannibal’s belt, the other man hiding his surprise with benign amusement. Will walked backward with Hannibal still hooked, leading him toward the master bathroom with the roomy walk-shower. Luca Conti had no place between them.

In the bathroom, Will commanded, “Tell me what you would have done, if he was yours.”

Hannibal looked at him and wet his bottom lip with his tongue. 

“Is this exercise in fantasy for my benefit or yours?”

Will looked up at him as he undid Hannibal’s tie.

“Neither. Both. It’s a reality that wasn’t allowed to exist.”

Hannibal sighed, enjoying his thoughts as he organized them into a linear story. 

Will moved on to unbuttoning his waistcoat. He was halfway through the shirt underneath when Hannibal began.

“I would drug him more thoroughly, stronger sedatives.”

Will completed Hannibal’s shirt and slid it off his shoulders, moving closer to him in the motion. 

“When he woke up, he would not be restrained.”

Will began working at his own shirt.

“Luca would find it very difficult to flee without hands.”

Will’s eyes flickered up to Hannibal’s at that; he found the pupils dilated to inky blackness and the focus pointed intensely on Will. He continued unbuttoning his own shirt and shook it off. 

“He would try to run, eventually, but he wouldn’t make it to the door.”

Will moved on to their belts, first Hannibal’s, then his. 

“He and I would have a conversation, I believe. There are things he would need to understand.”

Will undid Hannibal’s slacks and let them fall a bit to his hips. He asked for clarification with a casual, “Such as?”

“Luca would need to realize he had chosen this for himself. That I am only the executioner.”

Will shook his own pants and boxers off, then turned to start the shower, letting the water turn warm. One hand checking the water temperature, Will rebuked, “I think Luca would have disagreed.”

Hannibal stepped out of his slacks and then smoothly finished stripping off his few remaining articles of clothing. 

“In my reality, Luca recalls the precise moment he laid his head upon my chopping block.”

Hannibal stood near Will, not touching but close enough for his breath to move Will’s hair. The water adjusted, Will opened the sliding glass the rest of the way and stepped in, gently pulling Hannibal in behind him by the wrist. He started to soap a rag, but Hannibal plucked it from his hands, finished lathering it, and started methodically washing Will’s body. Will let the warm water erode some of the tension just below his skin, and Hannibal’s scrubbing down Will’s back amplified the effect.

“What was that?” Will asked, his voice quieter in distraction.

Hannibal continued cleaning Will, and didn’t answer until he had thoroughly washed his arms, back, chest, and the back of his legs. He sat down on the shower bench and turned Will toward him; rag discarded, he washed his hips thighs and calves with slick hands. He let his soapy hands run up and down the inside of Will’s thighs as he finished his task, pointedly ignoring the area of Will’s body that was increasingly demanding touch. He stood, turned Will around to face the shower head, grabbed a bottle, and started working on Will’s hair.

“Luca Conti lived on borrowed time from the moment he touched you until tonight,” Hannibal finally answered, matter-of-factly. “He was a very lucky man.” 

Will exhaled what could have been a laugh. He let Hannibal finish with his hair, and with a light kiss, he rearranged their positioning so that Hannibal received more of the water flow. It was Will’s turn to wash away the interloper from Hannibal’s form. 

“So you and Luca have had a discussion now,” Will reminded, getting them back on track. He didn’t bother with a rag, enjoying the feeling of foam spread over muscle. 

“Yes, we have. He understands why he has been relieved of the responsibility of possessing hands.”

Will exhaled a laugh. Only Hannibal could make cutting someone’s hands off sound like a personal favor. Will let his hands snake around Hannibal’s waist, holding him from the back. He washed his chest and stomach in this way, unwilling to break the full-body contact.

“He’s useless to me now, until he’s dead and thus more malleable to improvement.”

Will crouched down to wash Hannibal’s legs, biting his hip gently on the way back up. 

“I would strangle him, possibly with a rope. He wasn’t worth wasting a tie.”

For all of the times Will had felt Hannibal’s hands massaging through his own hair when he was injured, he had never returned the favor. Will tenderly worked his fingers through the other man’s locks, delighting in the damp softness. Hannibal let his head fall back for easier access; Will was satisfied to find his face completely relaxed.

“Would you pose him the same?” Will encouraged him to continue.

“Yes. It’s a bit on-the-nose for my tastes, but my previous residency in Florence was during my Boticelli period.”

Will finished washing the suds out of Hannibal’s hair. As soon as the water ran down his back without bubbling with soap, Will moved his mouth to Hannibal’s neck. He went straight to using his teeth, dragging his canines along the muscles and digging in when he found a spot that made the man’s pulse quicken. 

“Any further questions?” Hannibal asked between short exhales.

“What was it like to watch me kill him?” Will whispered into Hannibal’s neck. He heard a deep intake of breath; he moved the hands that were planted on Hannibal’s hips so that one was pressing against his chest over his heart and the other was snaking downward to run a finger along his length.

“Will,” Hannibal spoke reverently, “my lovely, clever boy.”

“Hmmm,” Will hummed lightly, teasingly. “I’m lovely when my hands are on you?” He formed his hand into a loose, open fist and stroked Hannibal fully.

Hannibal made a throaty noise between a laugh and a sigh. 

“Always lovely, always clever,” he elaborated. “Describing your kill is similar to describing a sunrise: The words lose all meaning in the colors of memory.” 

“Try,” Will growled, sliding between Hannibal’s thighs as he found a rhythm in his firm strokes. Hannibal adjusted the position of his legs to better accommodate Will’s movement-- legs close enough together for a tight fit. Will thrust into the space and groaned quietly from behind Hannibal. He needed this release of the evening’s electricity. 

“You see nothing but your victim. The world and all of us in it disappear,” Hannibal’s breath hitched on the last word, and Will stopped the movement of his hand until Hannibal began speaking again. “You’re a patient hunter. I believe you could wait for days. Dust would settle on your eyelashes before you moved.”

Will thought of waiting for Luca to wake up, the anticipation at a high; he pulled the hand on Hannibal’s chest tighter and started to thrust with a repeating roll of his hips.

“You saw what he would do before he did. You were already there, waiting for him.”

“Yes,” Will breathed into Hannibal’s back, still stroking, still thrusting, still listening. Hannibal’s hands reached down and behind him to hold onto Will’s hips, just feeling the movement.

“He went to the ground when you bored of him. Strangingling was too easy, too clean. You wanted to blacken the ground with his blood, and you did.”

Both men had begun to breathe quickly, and as Will quickened his pace and the intensity of his movements, they spoke in half-thoughts:

“You watched me...”

“So beautiful...”

“...standing behind me...”

“...across the throat...”

“...to share this with you...”

A shuddering groan escaped from deep within Will’s body. He was so close, so ready to fall over the edge. He had to bring Hannibal with him. He could tell by the man’s hardness that he must be teetering as well. Will knew Hannibal’s body and his responses to Will’s touch so well; he bit into Hannibal’s shoulder blade forcefully as he gripped the man’s chest even tighter. Hannibal sighed, raspy, let his head fall forward to watch Will’s thrusting between his legs. His fingertips ground into Will’s hips, and he said his name almost silently. The knowledge that Hannibal took pleasure in seeing Will slide between his thighs, thrusting against him, tipped Will over the edge. With hard, erratic rolling of his hips, Will came and the pleasure of release darkened his vision. Seeing Will’s orgasm between his legs and hearing the moaning breaths behind him, Hannibal soon followed him into the abyss. He rutted into Will’s grip, unable to keep his pelvis still any longer, then gave a single shaky moan as Will felt heat in his hand. 

Hannibal leaned forward, one hand on the wall in front of them, and Will slumped over his back, letting Hannibal carry the extra weight that Will couldn’t at that moment. As they came down, Will leaned back to support himself and left a trail of kisses up Hannibal’s spine to the nape of his neck. Hannibal turned to face him, lids heavy, and they kissed softly, tongues barely tasting one another. They were tired now, every source of possible energy tapped and spent. After a quick final clean-up, Hannibal turned off the water. He grabbed two large white towels. Instead of handing one to Will, he took it upon himself to fan it like a cape and wrap it around Will’s shoulders. Will found it patronizing and more than a little bit cliche, but in the rosy afterglow, he only half-rolled his eyes, a smile turning the corners of his mouth up in spite of himself. Hannibal pulled him in and gave him one last kiss-- this one more heated but still tender-- and released him so that they both could dry off and finally sleep.

In bed, Will was relieved to find that Hannibal was right-- Luca had washed away. Now, only Will and Hannibal remained. Sleep found Will easily that night and did not leave him until late morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Will woke to light peeking through the ivy-laden window. The dimmed sunlight against the stark white of the plush bedding gave the room a cozy, dreamy quality as his brain lazily processed the waking world. He could tell by the breathing and the fingertips grazing his curls-- wild, no doubt, from air drying as he slept-- that Hannibal was already awake but still in bed next to him. It was unusual for the man to stay very long if Will was still asleep; he’d often slip out and start coffee and breakfast. The faint sound of a page being turned helped Will picture Hannibal next to him: Propped up on the pillows, shirtless, hair tousled but more groomed than it had any right to be, a leather-bound book resting on his lap, his free hand petting his companion. Will didn’t turn to look, enjoying the quiet the pretense of sleep afforded him. Hannibal was not fooled, though.

“Good morning, Will,” he chimed. 

Will made a guttural noise into his pillow. He threw a glance over his shoulder to confirm he had accurately predicted the scene. So many mornings of Will’s life were spent waking up not knowing if he would need to towel off the sweat of his nightmares, clutch at something familiar around him to ensure his dreams were truly over, or lie in breathless panic as he replayed the unsavory ideas that visited him overnight. He rarely had the luxury to wake up gently from a deep sleep and know exactly what he was waking up to.

Behind him, he heard Hannibal close the book and lay it on the nightstand. The mattress shifted as Hannibal moved closer and laid an arm over him. He rested his chin on Will’s shoulder. Will reached to pick up his phone and check the time: 10:30. 

“You’re slumming it this morning,” he mumbled. It was late for both of them. 

“Am I not allowed to enjoy your company?” Hannibal asked, too much innocence in his voice.

“I was asleep,” Will deadpanned.

“My question stands,” Hannibal quipped back, pressing his mouth chastely to the skin of Will’s bicep. 

Will chose the high road.

“Are we cooking tonight?” he questioned, swerving to a safe topic.

“I have ideas for Mr. Conti, yes,” Hannibal answered. He draped himself over Will more fully and let his light kisses work up to Will’s neck. “The market can wait.”

The remark caused Will to finally wake up. 

Hannibal was, as a rule, far more comfortable with touch than Will. He had no qualms placing a hand on the other man’s back in public or mindlessly stroking his hand while they sat together. In a show of what Will imagined to be great self-restraint, this habit of pursuing touch usually stopped just short of initiating sex. That wasn’t to say Hannibal was reserved or lacking passion-- far from it. He merely seemed to prefer to gauge Will’s cues and wait for him to make the first clear overture. Will had formed several hypotheses about why this was the case. The earliest was that he was letting Will determine the tone of the relationship since Hannibal had been the one who almost let his newly beloved die from encephalitis and framed him for multiple murders. His second guess was that Hannibal’s sizable ego was fed by seeing Will flushed with desire. The most recent theory was that Hannibal had noticed Will had, from time to time, lashed out when he felt the man was pushing him too hard, asking too much. This theory worked best if Will truly believed Hannibal loved him-- loved him in the recognizable, selfless sense of the word, not a form only known to cannibals and grizzly bears. If Hannibal did love him, it wasn’t completely irrational that he held back just this littlest bit to avoid sending Will into a spiral of overthinking and snapping at the nearest hand.

“Will, where are you?” Hannibal broke into his thoughts.

Will raised his eyebrows playfully, not wanting to have A Discussion first thing in the morning. 

“A bed, Florence, Italy,” he remarked. 

Taking the answer as encouragement, Hannibal resumed moving his mouth along Will’s neck and jaw, persuading him to roll onto his back with the movements until he was underneath Hannibal. He blinked up at Hannibal with eyes still a tad bleary from sleep. The man staring down at him looked softer, more affectionate than Will could have imagined possible during their first meetings when Hannibal, wearing one of his absurd three-piece suits, would solemnly track Will’s pacing around his office. This was infinitely more frightening than his burning gaze had ever been.

He brought their mouths together in a kiss that escalated quickly from questioning to exploring, a tongue dipping into Will’s mouth tentatively and then coming back in searching caresses. Will put a hand up to Hannibal’s face to slow him.

“Is everything...okay?” It sounded inadequate even as Will said it. Hannibal’s face flickered between insult and amusement. “Usually, you’ve visited at least two galleries by now.” 

Hannibal pulled back a few inches, and Will slid his arms up his ribs, preventing him from leaning too far away. Will’s body language spoke more clearly than his words: _This is not an attack. This will not be a footnote in my profile of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I care._

“Dreams may act as a salve for a weary mind or a poison for the day to come. You know this better than most.”

Will didn’t let his face reflect the twinge of sympathy he felt in his chest.

“Dreams of the past?” Saying Mischa’s name while wrapped around one another like this would have felt profane.

Hannibal looked Will’s face up and down, eyes half-closing in thought. 

“No, of futures.”

Will didn’t appreciate when Hannibal tried to crack open his skull to examine the pieces of his mind, so he respected the ambiguity the other man shielded himself with now. Will kissed him, a signal the interrogation had ceased. A sliver of Hannibal’s distress-- of his humanity-- had been revealed, and he resumed his previous effort with fresh ardor. 

Will reeled his mind in and let his body respond to the touching, kissing, nipping, grinding. He let himself get lost in the mouth sucking on his collar bones and the hand urging him to feel the same painful need Hannibal had been led to this morning as he escaped the shadows of his dreams. Generally, Hannibal couldn’t help but speak during moments of intimacy; sometimes it was murmured fragments of thoughts, sometimes an ornate verbal seduction. Now, Hannibal was silent. The only words Will would recall later were spoken low, Hannibal’s voice breathy with the exertion of holding himself up as he moved attentively within Will, adjusting to find the angle and pace that would provoke the desired response. As though it explained everything, he whispered, lips against Will’s chest, “I can’t find where I begin.” Will was not sure this was meant for him, but the part of his brain not preoccupied by urging him to wrap his legs more tightly around the man’s waist plucked the words from the air and stored them safely away for later contemplation. 

When breath finally returned to their lungs, they gathered themselves enough to shower and dress. Will made coffee, and they sat in the courtyard. He allowed himself a few moments to ponder his life under the revelatory light of the sun. Precisely, he let himself ask how the hell he had ended up in this situation; this question was an old friend of his by now. Make no mistake-- he saw just fine the big picture view of his life thus far. He could smoothly explain how he came to spend months in Italy and why he could eat a human roast without trepidation. It was the finer details he found himself still stumbling over. How did he arrive at a point where he worried about Hannibal’s bad dreams? How did he convince an actual, honest-to-god serial killer to sleep in a guest bedroom without one word? How was it remotely possible that a craving for physical touch could now spark so easily inside of him after years of avoiding it? 

“Thoughts?” Hannibal prodded curiously.

Will sighed deeply and explained the crux of his thinking, “I couldn’t have imagined this life.”

“Attempts to predict our futures are exercises in self-indulgence; they presume fate will not intervene in ways we are unable to manage.”

“I managed fate fairly well most of my life,” Will retorted. “It’s your _intervention_ I didn’t predict.”

Hannibal seemed unduly pleased at that, but circled back to Will’s initial statement and rebuked, “I question if, in your previous life, you managed fate or blinded yourself to it.”

“My problem is typically the opposite of blindness,” Will shot back. 

Hannibal’s mouth lifted in a small smile at that, and they let the conversation fall into silence. A few minutes later, Hannibal stood and said distractedly, “I need to retrieve items for tonight’s meal. We’ll say 6 PM?”

Will nodded, felt a hand lightly squeeze the back of his neck as a good-bye, and listened to the footsteps fade and the front door open and close. 

Alone, he groaned aloud, knowing his endless questions did not have elegant, satisfactory answers. In fact, they did have one very mundane answer: Love-- the chemical, physical, psychological phenomenon experienced by people across the world since time immemorial. It was an evolutionarily-honed feedback loop of hormonal desire, physical touch, chemical reward, and social bonding. Thinking of it through a scientific lens made their situation seem almost logical and completely feasible; however, viewing their relationship through a more subjective lens, Will saw two adults in modern society who killed a thief and then repeatedly mauled one another like teenagers. That did not feel at all rational. 

Will stood abruptly and found his feet leading him out of the apartment. He already realized months ago he had no intention of separating from Hannibal, and if he had been forced to admit it, Will would say that he was happier than he could ever remember being. Cruelly, this happiness is what drove his mental self-flagellation: He was fearful of wanting anything that could be taken away. 

Worse, the very real danger that made his fear of losing Hannibal so poignant did not come from the FBI or the unknowable whims of enemies like Mason Verger-- it was that Hannibal was a damn good liar. He evaded capture for decades partially by using the people around him as tools. It was difficult not to think of Alana when his mind turned down this pathway. Had Hannibal greeted her in the morning hungry for her to open herself to him as he had with Will today? Had he whispered phrases that felt full with meaning but were empty inside? The thoughts made Will feel cold but not with jealousy. He let his body walk him in the direction of the _Ponte Vecchio._ The sight of water always did him good. 

Water made him think of Abigail. She was doing so well; she loved the freedom her identity as Grace Anderson afforded her, especially after the months of hiding. She made friends with her roommates and classmates, and her Italian far surpassed Will’s. Immense pride flooded Will each time he saw her; in spite of every force pushing her toward a twisted mold, she was thriving as an average college kid, her life sprawling ahead of her. She even looked forward to Hannibal and Will visiting her in the corner of the world she was carving for herself. The first time they dropped in, she introduced them to her roommates as her dads and whisked them away to play tour guide; Hannibal gladly let her direct them around the city, even when he probably knew better. The second time Hannibal and Will went to see her in Rome, they took her out for a very nice dinner and then delicately told her about their romantic involvement; there was much preparation for this moment and not a little bit of rehearsal. She looked at them with such a pure lack of surprise that the combination of her face, his relief, and the wine with dinner sent Will into a small fit of laughter. Hannibal asked how she had come to this conclusion herself, and when she explained how revoltingly obvious it was by using the phrase “new relationship energy,” actual tears sprang to Will’s eyes. It had been years since he last laughed until his stomach ached. Hannibal looked between them as though Abigail was speaking in tongues and Will had finally released his tenuous grasp on sanity, which consequently sent Abigail spiraling into laughter alongside Will. Everything she touched in Will’s life was tinged with a golden normalcy he thought impossible. 

Not for the first time, Will stared out at water and tried to reconcile the man he had come to know and live alongside-- and share a daughter with-- and the man he once thought he knew from his vantage point inside a cell. 

Will wandered the city aimlessly for most of the day, a gray cloud of melancholy hovering just overhead. He tried to recall the memories Hannibal had shared with him about the places he passed: Spending hours staring at Botticelli paintings in the Uffizi gallery, eating solitary meals at Trattoria Sostanza, sketching in the Piazza della Signoria. Hannibal told stories liberally about his years in Florence as a young man. Rambling around the streets might be the closest Will ever came to strolling the halls of the man’s memory palace.

Will returned to the apartment around 5:00 and grabbed the book Hannibal had been reading earlier. It was a heavily annotated copy of _The Divine Comedy_ ; he was reviewing it in preparation for tomorrow’s lecture, the second in his series. Will’s eyes scanned more intently over the notes than the printed words of the text, searching for some clue to Hannibal’s own tricky beliefs. When he heard the front door open and the sounds of bags being put down, he placed the book back where he found it and, with a bit of uneasiness, went to help Hannibal with dinner preparations. When Will reached the narrow kitchen, however, he stopped in the entry at the sight of not only the expected groceries but a number of bags that appeared to be filled with clothing, books, and basic art supplies. 

“Find what you needed?” Will lilted from the doorway. 

Hannibal set the groceries aside and carried the assorted other items past Will to place them neatly on a living room armchair. 

“This is for Abigail. You must have noticed her Spartan living quarters. And she needs new clothing.” Hannibal sounded businesslike and invited no room for question or comment. “Think of it as a care package, from both of us.”

“Abigail didn’t mention needing new clothes,” Will pointed out.

“It’ll be winter soon.”

“This is the Mediterranean. She’s from Minnesota. She’s not going to freeze.”

“She is growing up. Her old clothing is quite youthful and...Midwestern.”

Will sighed at the pretension but pawed through the bag. The clothing was very nice and obviously expensive, even though Will saw no tags or receipts. Still, she would like the art supplies more than the apparel. Will pictured Abigail in her student housing lighting up as she pulled item after item out of a box, her new friends cooing over the clothing and asking her to draw something for them. It was a lovely image. It was yet another vision formed in the recesses of Hannibal’s mind and made manifest. 

Hannibal went back into the kitchen without a second look at Will, challenging him to toss out a sarcastic remark about his lavish spending. One such comment was on the tip of Will’s tongue, but when he followed Hannibal into the kitchen and opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. It took Will another few seconds to feel that tears had come to his eyes and were threatening to spill down his face. He was not a man who cried easily, and this bout of emotion blind-sided him. Judging by Hannibal’s widened eyes, it surprised him as well; he stared at Will as though he wished Will was bleeding instead of crying because that was at least fixable. 

“Will?”

Will ran a hand across his face, embarrassed. What could he say? He had walked the city until he felt he knew Hannibal again, only for an act of kindness to unleash the catharsis of an epiphany. Imagining Abigail’s joy at Hannibal’s gifts, Will realized he had held Hannibal to a different standard than the one he held himself to. The man’s identity was evident: There was one, unified Hannibal just as there was one, unified Will. Hannibal did not exist alternatingly as a man and a monster; the two resided in the same flesh and lived harmoniously in one brain. There was no greater truth to uncover. 

Will chose to exercise his knack for brevity instead of bumbling through his revelation.

“I love you. It’s terrible,” he choked out, no more tears.

Hannibal put a hand on Will’s shoulder and guided them back to the living room. Will pushed down the urge to evade the man’s intensity.

Hannibal and Will sat on the couch without speaking. Eventually, Hannibal took a deep inhale.

“Would it be easier for you, Will, if I told you I have sometimes thought of eating you?”

For the first time in months, Will scanned the area for a weapon, just in case. Hannibal caught his eyes and realized elaboration was needed. Whatever emotions had been responsible for Will’s tears were quickly being replaced. 

“I dreamt of you dying last night,” Hannibal went on, unhelpfully. He clarified, “An unextraordinary death-- an illness.”

“Nature beat you to me,” Will quipped, the need to escape worsening. 

Hannibal soberly continued, “It is how most humans die. If not nature, chance. An accident, a wound...somehow, you will die one day, as will I.” Hannibal paused, thoughtful. With an edge of sadness to his voice, he continued, “The timing of our deaths is what troubles me, not the inevitability. It is the plague of mortality: We rejoice in sharing our lives with others; we shudder at the price we will pay for it.” Hannibal watched Will until he held eye contact with him. “Killing you would end my uncertainty, but I would pay dearly every moment I lived that you did not. I will not dam the river I have chosen to follow only because I fail to control the spring.”

Hannibal was a damn good liar, but even he had limits. This sentiment seemed far beyond them. 

“Then yes, Hannibal,” Will said tentatively, “it is good to know you thought of...eating me.”

They both had small, grim smiles when Hannibal added, “And you are also right, Will-- love is terrible.”

“It’s easier to suffer together,” Will offered. 

Hannibal took his hand, the flight risk seeming to have subsided. Will pulled him into an embrace. It was odd to hug Dr. Hannibal Lecter; it was especially odd for Will Graham to be the other half of the pair. It was intimate in a way they didn’t often express-- soft touch for the sake of comfort and to affirm one another’s existence in the world. 

Tucking his head into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, Will vowed he would not do this to himself again. He would not spend a day fabricating the worst possible reality in his mind; he would not spend a day alone constructing feelings within himself that only served to push away the few things in his life he’d found to bring him joy. This constant negotiation between them was exhausting, and it was needless.

“Shall we begin dinner?”

“What are we making?” Will muttered into Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Our entree is heart with a mushroom spinach stuffing.”

Will snuffed a laugh and commented, “A student of Freud.” 

Will could tell Hannibal was frowning just a bit at him when he stiffly stood up, straightened his clothing, and strode purposefully toward the kitchen. He would see the humor eventually.

In an unspoken agreement, they both stayed close to home the next day. Will asked Hannibal about his annotations, and while he originally told Will to wait for the lecture that evening, he ended up speaking for one and a half hours straight on the topic. Will only escaped him when lunch came, a useful distraction. After lunch, Will worked on his book for the first time in a week. Hannibal finally had to leave the apartment at 5:00 to go to the museum; the lecture didn’t start until 7:00, but he had museum workers to terrorize and socialites to impress. Will planned on sneaking in right as the presentation began to avoid the chit chat beforehand. The event organizer would put a “Reserved” sign on a chair in the front row for him, though Hannibal would discreetly move the sign to a chair in the back corner. 

Will got caught up in his research and started getting ready later than planned. He took a hurried shower, and when he heard a knock on the door at 6:30, he didn’t attempt to answer it. A few minutes later, Will was frustratedly searching for the cufflinks Hannibal had polished for him earlier that week-- the man would appreciate him making the effort. However, the sound of the door opening caused him to stop moving. Hannibal wouldn’t have come back this close to the lecture, and he certainly wouldn’t open the door, take a few steps in, then pause.

Alarms sounded in Will’s brain. He stood along the wall inside the dressing room. Nothing he could grab quickly and silently would serve as an effective weapon; Will prepared himself to fight. Yet, when he peered around the doorframe to get a glimpse of the intruder, all of the violence left his body. He couldn’t stop himself before calling out to the familiar man: “Jack?”

The lecture went as well as Hannibal expected. He was not concerned when the program started and Will’s seat was empty. He was considerably more concerned when it remained empty. Nobody in the audience would have suspected that for every passing second, another lead weight was dropped into his chest. When he was on his final slides, Inspector Pazzi quietly entered the space and stood directly behind the seat with the reservation tag still affixed to it. As the audience applauded, Hannibal suavely navigated the crowd, headed straight for Rinaldo Pazzi. The inspector waited for him.

“Dr. Lecter, your observations are beyond reproach.”

Hannibal did not speak, did not blink. 

“Come. Let’s discuss your work somewhere your admirers will not interrupt us.”

“I was under the impression you were one of my admirers, Inspector Pazzi.” Hannibal let the words drip with meaning, the only strike at Pazzi he could take in the present situation.

Pazzi was too self-satisfied in the moment to be shaken.

“You can find me upstairs.”

Hannibal turned without responding. He fixed his eyes on the curator and approached her swiftly, not catching the gaze of any who would stop him to discuss the evening’s presentation. He told the woman he was not feeling well and had to leave quickly; she offered to escort him home, but he demurred. Hannibal could tell by the woman’s face that she believed him, and he supposed he might authentically look ill. 

He made sure many attendees saw him exit the museum. He waited until the lights started going out and the flow of leaving attendees stopped to slink back inside and up the narrow staircase used by museum employees. Pazzi waited for him impatiently, pacing the area without studying the exhibits. 

“Doctor, I appreciate you joining me on such short notice. I was told you would be motivated to comply with my request, but I had my doubts.”

Hannibal watched him circle around the room as he spoke. 

“We have mutual friends,” Rinaldo stated. “Mason Verger?”

“I fed his pigs once,” Hannibal answered. A disdainful laugh came from Pazzi’s chest. “Who else calls us both ‘friend,’ _commendatore_?”

“I may have misspoke when I suggested Jack Crawford considers you a friend. I have a feeling he once did, for what it’s worth.”

Hannibal made no expression or movement. Pazzi compensated, not nervous but unable to remain in one place for long. Playing the middleman for a deranged millionaire was not a natural fit for the long-time officer.

“Jack Crawford was a good man. Perhaps you were, as well.”

“Did you know Mr. Verger put a high price on your head? High enough that even good men could not resist.”

Hannibal had no intention of prolonging his time with Inspector Pazzi.

“Where is Will Graham?”

For the first time, Pazzi looked at Hannibal like he could be a threat. Before then, he too thoroughly distracted himself with the schemes he had involved himself in; he was not the first Pazzi to disregard his safety for the promise of full pockets. 

“My role in Mr. Verger’s enterprise is very simple. I am merely a messenger. There is an airplane waiting for you; it will take you to the United States. I will drive you to the plane and then you will never see or hear from me again.”

Hannibal tilted his head to the side and looked at Pazzi as though he were expecting an answer. Pazzi was not certain he had heard his previous statement at all. 

“Agent Crawford retrieved Mr. Graham from your home this evening. He is already in the sky. I was assured he is unharmed.”

“We are worth more to Mr. Verger alive than dead.”

Pazzi smiled uncomfortably, caught. 

“Doctor, if you refuse to board the plane tonight, Will Graham will be killed, and you will still be captured. There are more people searching for you. Be reasonable.”

Hannibal stared at a space in the distance, emotionless. 

“I am not an unreasonable man, Inspector. I understand my circumstances.”

Pazzi nervously took a few steps toward him.

An hour later, Hannibal approached Mason Verger’s private jet, and Rinaldo Pazzi dangled from a window, bowels streaming below him.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help myself and am writing a sequel. I made it one whole day before I missed having the guys bickering in my head (that sounds sketchier than I meant it to be).


End file.
